But the centre, the pivot, the axis of our
revelry is always the merry-go-round on the Town Quay.
"The merry-go-round, the merry-go-round,
the merry-go-round at Troy,
They whirl around, they gallop around,
man, woman, and maid and boy!"
Yachtsmen, visitors, farmers and country wives, sober citizens and
mothers of families, all meet centripetally and mount and are
whirled to the mad strains of the barrel-organ under the flaming
naphtha, around the revolving pillar where the mirrored images chase
one another too quickly for thought to answer their reflections.
We make no toil of our pleasure; yet, if you will mark the
distinction, it keeps us hard at work, and reflection must wait until
Thursday morning. Then we dismiss the yachts on their Channel race
westward. We fire the last gun, pull down the blue Peter, and off
they go. We draw a long breath, stow away our remaining blank
cartridges, pocket the stopwatch, heap the recall numbers together,
and, having redded up the jolly-boat, light our pipes and sit and
gaze awhile after our retreating visitors. They go from us silent as
great white moths; but, silent themselves, they take, as they
brought, all the noise and racket with them. Our revel is over;
behind us the harbour lies almost deserted, and we row back to our
diurnal peace.
To be sure, in the days of which I write, there were no yachts to
visit us.
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